"Adventures in Food City"

Some notes from the low end mega-mart Food City in Tucson, AZ

Adventures in Food City




                               


In the mighty vista of Tucson, AZ we have a variety of shops and markets to choose from to stock those shelves, fill the fridge and sneak a bite of carob balls from the bin food aisle. That’s right, this dusty, spread out and all together bizarre (see the other Tucson blogs) city is just like yours dear reader. That is if you are reading from outside of Southern Arizona. If not then, hey guys! We just like them big cities n shee-it!

Sure I poke fun of this adopted city of mine. Mind you if it wasn’t for She-Ra, cheap rent and the library system here...I woulda been gone a long time ago. But there is a flavor and eccentricity of this hamlet that is an endless bevy of entertainment and pure frustration.

And to get back on the subject here, Tucson has a chain of supermarkets that rival any mecca of shopping pleasure, convenient market, well stocked shop and your local downtrodden and often held up liquor hut. I am talking about Food City. If there is a Food City in your neighborhood or township then...you know what I’m talking about, right? No...no you probably don’t. The Food City’s in Tucson, AZ are a unique blend of supermarket, Mexican bodega, corner store, cafeteria and half way home. They exist only to serve those who have little pocket change, are running from the law or just want to stare into the steely eyes of day old guacamole and hear the shrill cries of kids getting spanked in the dairy section. The Food City’s here are a vortex of humanity and foodstuffs that I have never come across. In the 36 years I have roamed the Earth and shopped in various towns of different size Food City stands high on the heap of gleefully shopping while holding back the tears of anguish.

Luckily, there is one a few blocks away!

My first visit there was on a hot summer day of 2006. Still fresh off the California boat and still without a proper job, She-Ra and I went to Food City to stock up. When we pulled into the parking lot I was a bit put off by the signs advertising products all in Spanish and the ambulance sitting a few yards away. A man was stretched out sleeping on the plastic table outside and really overweight people shuffled slowly in and out of the rickety sliding doors, all of whom had a brood of kids in grubby tee-shirts and pink sparkly dresses.

“Wait a minute,” I think I said. “Where are you taking me?”

She-Ra assured me that it was just another supermarket, albeit a low end one and we can get similar items for far less than any other market.

Wait. “Similar” items? What the heck does that mean? Sure, most of the stuff you see in chain drug stores saying “compare to this or that” is in fact this or that, but a place where tattooed vagrants and old people pushing shopping carts with only a can of soup in them roam free in the lot doesn’t conjure up safe alternatives. It’s like shopping at Payless Shoes.

“Hey man...do you have Adidas?”

“Naw playa. We got A-doo-doo.”

But I was being a jerk. Still stuck up and feeling superior because of my California and most recently San Francisco roots, I had this attitude that Tucson was at my mercy and I was cooler than the coolest here. But that all changed! I was in a new place; a new life and new experiences lay ahead of me. So I sucked it up and we walked inside.

OK. It wasn’t as bad as I thought it was. Food City is just like a major supermarket but with a twist. It carries a variety of items from Mexico and blasts Cumbria and Banda music through the house PA system. This immediately brought up memories of Foods Co in San Francisco where Jose and I would shop when we were flat broke. The kind of inner city supermarket where armed guards patrol and apple pies can be purchased for .99 cents. Foods Co was indeed the lowest of the low but Food City is its rambunctious and smelly uncle.

I was first met with a deli counter. The endless plastic troughs were filled with salsa of all degrees and colors, which is great, but one was actually pink. At first I thought it was a desert or some kind of glaze, but upon further inspection I noticed it said “Salsa Cordova”. As my eyes focused on the pinkish mush, I noticed little bits floating in the wash and what looked like hen claws peeking their way up from the depths. Jesus, I thought, this is the kind of authentic cuisine I have only found in severely Kosher delis and Alaskan blubber harvests. Slowly I backed away and wondered what kind of sick asscake that Cordova fellow must have been. That’s when I saw the “Cabeza Torta” and ran screaming looking for She-Ra.

She was safe and sound in the vast expanse of the produce area. Food City has all of your typical products, sure, but I saw struck by the overwhelming amount of chili peppers. It took up the entire length of the back wall and ranged from the smallest and darkest to peppers the size of my calf and stark white.

“Which one is the hottest one?” I asked.

She-Ra then explained that the smaller and brighter they are, the hotter. But what about large and white? Which one is that?

When no one was looking (or should I say, caring) I grabbed a decent and fairly clean big white pepper, snapped off the end tip and took a bite. It was crunchy, but then I was met with a mace spray shock in my mouth. Much like those gooey filled chewing gums, this “pepper” exploded in my mouth and I was soon on the ground; knocked cold by the power of the pepper.

“Oh my god,” She-Ra shouted. “What’s wrong?”

I couldn’t speak. The pain was too intense. But I found the strength to stand up and doing so I noticed a vegetable sprayer laying dormant on a pile of lettuce. I grabbed the thing, pulled the trigger and shot a fan spray of cool yet tainted water into my maw. Those who were shopping in the produce section were treated to a mid afternoon comedy show as the lot chose to laugh their heads off rather than help. I suppose the sight of a goofy gringo with a water sprayer going full blast into his face as he wretched in pain could be considered an amusing sight. But once the fire was quelled and the sprayer went off the look on She-Ra’s face was far from amusing. Pretty soon though, she became caught up in the moment and started to giggle. She grabbed my hand and we moved on as I dripped fetid water in a trail of shame.

Next stop was canned goods and this is where things get creepy. Most of the items neatly lining the shelves were all in Spanish, except for Spam, that I knew. Mind you, there were a few things that were recognizable from your basic store in suburbia but most had little men with thick moustaches wearing sombreros advertising a legion of beans, chilies, peas and so forth.

“Gosh,” I said. “Even in Mexican marketed stores they even have stereotypes of Mexicans. All they are missing is a burro or that sleeping guy in a poncho and hat covering his head. For a product called Los Alinas Frijoles that is exactly what was on the can.

She-Ra grabbed a few things as she was intent on making authentic nachos sometime and as we moseyed down the lane a can of some kid caught my eye. It grabbed me like a tough guy taking me by the scruff. So I grabbed the can, re-read the label and was soon realizing I was holding a product that was called “Mung”.

At first I thought it said “Mang”, you know like ‘hey mang...what you looking at?’ But no...the thing was called Mung and I stood there stupid with fear.

A man came up next to me and grabbed the same thing. He put it in his half full cart and was about to leave.

“Excuse me sir,” I said putting one hand on his cart. “But...wh-what is this?”

“Oh jes,” he said in a very thick accent. “Moong. Good...ah...to eat. Um...for food.” He then smiled wide and moved on.

I was about to buy the thing just to open it at home and run experiments, but as I searched for ingredients all I found was a complex weave of Spanish, none that was covered in my foreign language course in high school. But it did have a nutritional chart though. Mung was low in sodium but high in fat. To me, that made sense. So I put the can down carefully, walked away from it with caution and caught up to She-Ra.

The center of Food City is like a Mexican party central. Pinatas, lawn ornaments, styrofoam coolers, huge bags of unrecognizable candy and folding chairs reigned supreme in this area. What got me the most was the presence of huge Jesus and Mary statues. They were everywhere. For every donkey pinata there were three Jesus’s, the one where his heart is illuminated and his left hand is holding up two fingers. One Mary was lit up from the inside and stood at least three feet high, if not taller. As we were exiting the ‘party area’ an elderly woman spotted the life size, illuminated Mary, got on her knees, did the cross move over her chest, kissed it then began to pray. People just walked by as if this kind of thing happens all the time. The music overhead was booming Cumbria music and a toothless biker type guy with horrible faded tattoos walked by me and said “S**t...if there’s beer at the party tonight you knooooow there’s gonna be p***y!” I wasn’t too sure how to take that moment. It still recurs now and then in deep slumbering dreams.

She-Ra wanted to drizzle either chicken or beef over the nachos so we were in the meat section for quite sometime. This is where the House of Horrors commences. Sure, its common to see organ meats and pig feet in markets, but in establishments such as Food City there is also tripe, which is stomach lining. It’s the main ingredient in menudo, which I had once as a kid when I spent the night at my friend Monty’s house. His mom made it for breakfast and I just thought it was yummy Mexican soup.

“Say Monty,” I’m sure I said, “this isn’t too bad. It’s weird but kinda good. What is it?”

“Menudo. It’s got beans, brains and stomach lining. Eat up, Voltron is on!”

I could never look at the stuff since then. And when that Ricky Martin group came out in the 80s I was torn with bad feelings. Not only did their music suck but they were named after a dish that haunted me every time I had real soup or stew. To this day, chili still rings too close to that vile breakfast slop.

Next to the tripe and penises, there was a cow face under plastic wrap. A full face. Cabeza, it’s called, just like the torta I ran from earlier. I couldn’t help but pick it up and play puppet with its mouth. As I did so the butcher behind the counter gave me a look as if I desecrated a sacred item. So moving the cow’s lips one last time I said “Oh...sorry” and trying not to move my mouth to add to the illusion. It didn’t work. So I lowered the face back to its area and left.

Last on the adventure was the beer aisle. And let me tell you...this is the place to buy beer! The whole back area of Food City is dedicated to beer. Acres and acres of the stuff, in all different sizes, colors, brands and flavors. Most of which, you can imagine, was from Mexico with names like Sol, Barracho, Sabor, Muy Macho and Kill Whitey. And cheap. Man, this stuff was cheap. Men of all walks of life were carrying out boxes and boxes of the stuff, like they were preparing for nuclear war or something and were stocking up for the ensuing year as fallout zombies roamed the surface and they were safe underground, eating Mung and drinking cases of Santos Pantalones.

What got me was the amount of 40oz bottles. They ran the gamut of the usual stock, like Miller and Bud, etc, but I was drawn to an elixir called FIST. It had the bright orange dot on it announcing its $1.28 price and I just had to have one. She-Ra grabbed a 12-pack of decent beer but I had to have my FIST.

“That s***s good buddy!”, shouted the toothless biker. “You give that to some chick and, whammo!...she’s on your lap faster than a small dog. A dog that likes to suck dick!”

That was the last straw. She-Ra and I gathered our stuff and made a B line for the check out counter. Most people in line had children, most of which were crying and being beaten by chubby mothers trying to read the National Intruding Sun. Eventually we made our way to the fore front and were being ringed up. That’s when I noticed a collection of heavily gated and severely locked cabinets along the wall opposite the registers. As She-Ra paid the lady, I walked up to see what was inside. In a place like this I was certain that guns and knives might be up for purchase. Then I saw a bunch of liquor bottles. They had stuff like Jack Daniels and Jose Cuervo under lock and key. Next to the booze were the cigarettes, which is understandable. Then came the drugs, the allergy and cold pills and I had to ask the armed guard why medicine was in a cage.

“Because man,” he said in a voice like I was stupid for not knowing, “you can make meth out of it. People come in and buy too much of that stuff. So we gotta lock it up.”

Right. I had forgotten that crystal meth was indeed a lab experiment gone horribly wrong and was an epidemic here in Tucson. So, sure, the antihistamines made sense. But then...why was baby food locked up? And diapers? It then dawned on me why it was and as we left I was feeling a mix of terror, humor and grief, all from one afternoon in a supermarket. Food City is the nexus of humanity.

That was just the first impression of the place. I have since been back a few times but nothing compared to that initial introduction to Food City. Sure, there have been other adventures, like the time I put pig snouts down my pants, and there will be others, but for now I have that memory of just dusting off the San Francisco fog and meeting up with my new crazy neighbor: Food City.

I know you have a market like this where you live.

Write me and tell me about it.

Until then...ask your perverted uncle what ‘mung’ is and see why I can never return to aisle 5.


© 2007, Hindu Squirrel Ent.